Remember When It Rained
by Areida Rivers
Summary: The rain always brought good things to Arianna of Troy... but had always been a terrible omen for Helen of Sparta. RE-POST!
1. One: Helen

**Remember When It Rained  
****- One -**

It was raining.

She could hear them laughing downstairs in the banquet hall, their drunken stories growing louder and more outrageous with each wine pitcher the slave girls brought to the long tables. She rolled over in bed and covered her head with a pillow. Still their voices permeated her bedroom and she sighed.

Someone was walking up the stairs. Not a slave girl—no, the footfalls were too heavy.

Muscles tensed, she slowed her breathing and lay absolutely still.

The footsteps moved closer to her bed, and she could hear labored breathing. Gods, no—why couldn't he go back downstairs and drink himself into a stupor?

He dropped into bed next to her, fumbling to slide his legs beneath her blanket and pressed his body against her back.

Her eyes flew open in delight and she turned to face him. "_Paris._"

"Helen," he returned, pulling her into his arms. He smelled of wine, and when he kissed her, Helen felt just as drunk as him. His mouth tasted like the wine he had drunk—rich, heady, and entirely intoxicating. His fingers brushed past her face, winding themselves into her thick, blonde locks, pulling her face against his.

"Paris," she gasped as he moved from her mouth, tilting her chin to press hot kisses to her neck.

"My love," he breathed. "Sweet, beautiful Helen…"

It was so much better when he said it.

Poor Menelaus—strong, handsome, awkward, clumsy Menelaus. The king of Sparta led hundreds of men into battle, was renowned for his skill as a ruler and warrior, but knew nothing of women, or of love. He came to her bed intoxicated and made love to her with as much gentleness and care as he afforded a favored weapon. But a wife is not a sword, and Helen always shied away from his drunken embrace, when his rough beard scratched her soft cheek and his hands were too demanding.

"My Helen," he always said. "My perfect wife."

Poor Menelaus, living in the shadow of his older brother, Agamemnon. Poor Menelaus, always inadequate, no matter how great his glories. Poor Menelaus, who had all the power a man could want, but never had enough. And poor Helen, forced to endure his sighs and complaints, ignored for days then expected to play queen, both in his banquet hall and in his bed.

When the envoys from Troy had arrived, Helen stood blank-faced behind her husband. King Priam was too old to make the long journey across the sea, and had sent three of his sons in his stead—Deiphobus, the oldest prince of Troy, Hector, the most beloved, and Paris, one of the younger princes.

Helen had not noticed Paris at first, but he had noticed her, and sought her out, presenting her with Trojan baubles and trinkets, smiling and lingering just a little too long. She had accepted his attention only after she realized that Paris' attentions would deflect Deiphobus'. Deiphobus was nothing like Paris. He was taller and bulkier with a dark, almost wild-looking beard. He wore his hair shorn close to his head, like Menelaus, and the way he looked at Helen made her shudder.

So she had allowed Paris to befriend her.

And then he had bedded her, and now she was physically ill at the thought that he would leave her here alone with her heavy-drinking, thoughtless, red-haired husband.

Paris hovered over her, breathing hard. He pushed her hair out of her face with such tenderness that Helen wanted to weep.

"Paris, don't go," she said. "Please. Never leave."

"Sweet Helen," he said, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Don't think of it. The envoys will linger at least a week more."

"Menelaus?" Helen inquired, struck suddenly that her husband might still find his way to her bed tonight.

"Snoring blissfully on a stack of cushions in the banquet hall." Paris smirked. "I've never seen a king overindulge as often as your husband." He flopped down beside her.

Delighted, Helen wriggled upward in bed and kissed his neck. "Good," she said. "Then let's use this time…" She tugged at his earlobe with her teeth and whispered into his ear, "For us… alone… finally alone."

Paris pulled away and sat up. "Helen."

Hurt at his rebuttal, she frowned.

"I've had a dream."

A smile slipped across her lips and she reached for him. "Come here and I'll make it come true."

He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm. "No, truly, my love—a vision. A vision from the gods."

Helen frowned again at his serious countenance. His eyes, bright blue like the sea, held no playfulness tonight. He turned his head away from the torchlight that blazed beside her window, casting his face half into shadow.

"They have never come to me before," he said. "I have heard the tales of men and women who have seen the gods, who have loved and lost them, who have been violated or despised by them, but I have never seen it for myself…" He turned back toward her, and the fire illuminated his face. "Until now."

Helen didn't know what to say, but Paris continued without encouragement.

"You should have seen her, Helen—she was so lovely I felt as thought I'd die when I saw her. It was… it was like she was too lovely to be seen by mortal eyes."

Helen felt a prickle of jealousy. Who could _possibly_ have captivated him so?

"And then she spoke. It was like… like singing—only no singing I could have imagined myself. And do you know what she said?"

His face was beatific.

"What?" Helen asked, feeling immensely displeased. What was this new snub? For him to crawl into her bed and speak of a beauty beyond compare?

Paris leaned forward and clasped both her hands in his. "That you are mine. She gave you to me."

"_Who_?"

"Aphrodite," Paris breathed. "The goddess of love herself came to me in a vision and told me to take you away from this place. She told me you belong to me now—that we belong to each other—and no one, god or man, can keep you from me."

Helen gave a short, sharp laugh and pulled her hands away. "You are drunk, darling," she said. "You know Menelaus would never let me go."

Paris shook his head, the soft, dark curls moving side to side, and wound his fingers with hers. "You're not listening. What Menelaus wants, you living as his wife—those days are over. The only thing that matters now is that we are together."

"You're _impossible_." Helen tried to pull away, but he held her fast. "If we left together it would mean my head," she said. "Instead you will leave me, and it will only mean my heart."

"And you're not _listening_." He clasped her hands to his chest, and she could hear his heart beating rapidly, like a bird desperately flapping its wings beneath his ribcage. "Aphrodite came to me in a vision and told me that we _belong_ together. You and I. Not you and Menelaus. Not me and a noblewoman from Troy. _You and me._"

"Paris," she said, helpless, weak with desire at the thought of escape.

"_Come with me, Helen_. Run away with me to Troy—we'll set sail tomorrow morning, while Menelaus is still to hung over to realize you're missing. It'll be hours before anyone knows, and by then it will be too late. You'll be gone forever."

"Paris," she protested.

"Helen," he said, releasing one of her hands and cupping her chin in his hand. It was strong, his grasp firm, but he didn't have any of the broad calluses that Menelaus sported, and his grip didn't hurt. "You'll never have to see Menelaus again," he said. "Live with me and I will love you and the goddess will protect us forever."

"Paris," she said again, weakening.

"Say yes." He laid down and pulled her into his arms, covering her face with kisses. "Say yes, my love. Say yes and we'll go away from here forever."

She couldn't think.

Paris was slipping her tunic upward, running his lips over her collarbone, destroying whatever reservations she might have had. "Let me please you, Helen," he said. "Let me love you always. Come with me to Troy." He kissed her hard. "Say yes. Please say yes."

The _please_, with his tousled hair and his adoring eyes, undid Helen. She nodded. "Yes," she whispered. "_Yes_, I'll go."

"Oh, Helen," he sighed.

And Paris, giver of immaculate pleasure, pleased Helen, Queen of Sparta, greatly.

Outside, the rain fell harder.


	2. Two: Arianna

**Two**

**[Arianna]**

"Calixte, stop your gawking and help me."

Arianna watched her mother shake out a wet garment.

The little girl pouted. "But mother—"

Damia shook her head. "No buts, young lady. You can go play later."

Calixte opened her mouth to protest, but her mother smacked her playfully on the backside. "Hop to it, little miss," she said, a smile crossing her tanned face.

Little Calixte heaved a sigh, resigning herself to the monotonous task of hanging laundry out to dry. Looking deeply offended, she rubbed her backside and pouted, reaching for a piece of clean clothing with her free hand.

Arianna shook her head as she hung a dark brown garment on the line. Calixte never had much patience for household chores. She'd far rather run around with the other village children and play silly little games all day. Calixte longed for excitement, and spent hours sitting up on the battlements and gazing out over the sea.

The soldiers had at first been reticent to allow the little girl to hang around, but Calixte, who had not yet seen her eighth winter, quickly charmed them all with her sweet smile and high spirits. She was irresistible.

Arianna glanced at her sister, two years her junior. Calixte's green eyes were glazed over as she mindlessly reached up to hang another garment. She was definitely the beauty in the family.

"Mother, did you hear about what Prince Paris did?" Calixte asked suddenly. _As well as the gossip, _Arianna thought wryly.

Her mother evidently felt the same. "Calixte," she said, putting her hand on her hip. The wet garment she had been about to hang up was still in her grasp, and several droplets of water smashed to the dusty ground. "It is none of your concern what that good-for-nothing prince has been up to. Do you understand me?" Calixte's brow furrowed at the reception of her news. "Calixte…" her mother prompted.

"Yes _Mana_," Calixte muttered, her head bowed, shoulders tense, obviously biting her tongue to keep herself from further scolding.

Arianna tossed a tunic over the clothesline, smoothing it as she looked out over the sea, sending a quick prayer of thanks to the goddess Hestia for the beautiful location of the family's home. The small abode was set far back enough from the walls of the city that Arianna felt safe from the heavy storms that sometimes ravaged the shore, but close enough to the beach that if she closed her eyes and breathed deeply on windy days, she could almost feel the salt spray.

Arianna glanced over at Calixte. Her little sister was standing on tiptoe to hang up one of her father's work tunics, her long braids hanging nearly to her waist. Calixte's shoulders heaved in an enormous sigh as the little girl finished her task and tilted her head back to gaze up at the clear sky, her hands posed on her hips.

Arianna frowned. Calixte looked almost… peaceful. Arianna blinked twice and then hung up one of her younger sister's undergarments before looking back at her sister. To her surprise, Calixte was still standing there. Her sandaled feet, which usually tapped to imaginary music, were oddly still on the packed dirt. Her hands were still on her hips, and there was not even a breeze to swing Calixte's brown braids to and fro across her back.

"What are you doing?" Arianna asked. She didn't notice her mother turning to look at her two daughters.

"Just waiting." Calixte said quietly, never taking her eyes from the sky.

"For what?" Arianna asked, her hands clasped behind her back as she began to rock back and forth on her heels a little bit. Arianna always became fidgety when she was uneasy.

"Something extraordinary," Calixte said.

Unnerved, Arianna frowned and tore her gaze from her younger sister's still form. She shook out a cloth and hung it over the line, purposefully keeping her eyes from Calixte until her mother's voice broke into her thoughts.

"You may go, Calixte."

Arianna heard a squeal of delight and turned in time to see Calixte scampering away, hollering something to a little boy nearby, whose face lit in delight. "Calixte's coming to play!" he called, which inspired more whoops and shouts.

Arianna looked at her mother, who was smiling sadly as she watched Calixte run off with several of the neighborhood children.

"Why did you let her go, _Mana_?" Arianna asked, her brow wrinkling in confusion. "I thought we were supposed to help Calixte learn patience."

Damia smiled at her daughter and picked up the empty laundry basket, setting it on her hip. "You're right, Arianna, but today as I watched her face I couldn't help but give in. I think sometimes we forget that Calixte has not yet seen her eighth winter. She is still very young, and bound to be impetuous. If Calixte is to learn patience, she must see it in everything you and I do. But remember, sweet, neither of us wants to cloy your sister with unrealistic demands."

Arianna plopped down on the short stone wall that lined the back of their home. "I suppose," she said, resting her chin in one hand.

Damia exhaled in a laugh and set the basket, woven by her own hand, on the ground. She crossed the packed dirt of the yard and sat next to Arianna, reaching out to touch her dark braid. "Oh my Arianna," she said, putting her arm around her daughter. "Adults don't know everything. We do the best we can, sweet, but the gods don't give us all the answers."

Arianna lifted her head, her eyes searching her mother's wide, careworn face, tanned from so many years of hard work. "They don't? But mother, why are you and _Pateras_ in charge if you don't know everything? And kings and queens and princes and all the rest?"

Damia laughed aloud, her whole body shaking in amusement. She touched her finger to the tip of Arianna's nose. "You are such a wise girl, my _thygatera_, but no mortal knows all the secrets of the earth. Sometimes the gods will reveal things to us a little at a time, like how to cultivate the rough land around Troy, how to take grain and make good bread out of it. But they never see fit to tell us how to raise our children. That's left to us. Your _Pateras _and I do the best we can."

Arianna drew her knees up to her chest and began to rock back and forth slowly. "I won't ever tell Calixte," she said solemnly. "I don't think she'd ever listen to you again, _Mana._"

Damia's face, which had been split in an uncharacteristic smile returned to its normal position: pleasant, but clearly a firm disciplinarian. "I would never ask you to keep anything from your sister, but I need to tell you something, Arianna. Though you are very young, I feel I can trust you with this. Can you promise me something, my sweet?"

Arianna nodded slowly, feeling the heat of the sun on her cheeks and the top of her head.

Damia looked around, as though checking for eavesdroppers, then brought her eyes to Arianna's. "I want you to promise me that you will look after Calixte, especially once I am gone."

"Oh mother, don't say such things!" Arianna gasped, letting her long legs drop to the ground and reaching out to take her mother's hands in her own. "Nothing is going to happen to you, Apollo willing."

Damia's mouth curved. "Hush, little one. I do not fear for my life. When my time comes, that will be that. It is your sister I worry about. You and I both know that Calixte does not think before she speaks, nor does she concern herself with matters other than the most superficial. I fear that her innocence will evolve into frivolity, which could be taken advantage of." Damia scooted closer to her daughter, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "Watch her, my Arianna. Your sister is a tragedy just waiting to happen."

Arianna was silent for a moment, watching the emotions pass over her mother's usually stoic face. Could she promise to care for Calixte? As much as Arianna loved her baby sister, Calixte was passionate and had the potential to become high-strung, even hysterical. Arianna let out an unsteady sigh. "I will do as you say, _Mana_."

Damia's eyes held something odd—it looked almost like respect, but Arianna could not see why her mother would have respect for a daughter who had not yet passed eleven winters.

"You are a good girl, Arianna of Troy. Someday you will be a good wife and mother too, I think."

Arianna's eyes widened. "Mana! I am much too young to think of marriage."

Damia shook her head, mouth curving in amusement. "You are older than you think, my girl. Would you like to know the name of your betrothed?"

Arianna gasped and tightened her grasp on her mother's hands. "You and Pateras have already chosen? But, Mana, so soon?"

Damia stood. "His name is Lysander. He is training to become a warrior of Troy. He comes from a good family, and is a good boy. He will make a fine husband for you; don't fret so."

Arianna rose and brushed off her sandy hands on her clothes. "How old is he, mother?" she asked.

Damia's lip curved knowingly. "He is young, my Arianna. Your father and I would never have chosen an old man for you. I believe he will see his fifteenth winter in just a few months."

Arianna nodded, unable to help the smile that bloomed on her face. "How nice," she said noncommittally. "I am very grateful that you and Pateras have chosen someone so close to my own age." Already, thoughts of what he might look like swirled about in Arianna's head, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Her—married! It was practically unthinkable.

Damia looked as though she were going to tease her daughter, but suddenly drew her gaze toward the sky. Dark clouds had gathered quickly, and the air, which before had been dry and arid, was rapidly growing humid. Arianna inhaled. The land smelled of rain.

Damia's brow knit in a frown. "And just as we put all the wash out to dry. There wasn't a cloud in the sky this morning!" she exclaimed, walking quickly to the wash line and beginning to pull things off the line with jerky, frustrated movement, dropping them carelessly into her basket. "I suppose we'll have to lay them out in the house," she muttered to herself, gnawing on her bottom lip as a rumble of thunder sounded.

Arianna bit back a giggle and rushed to help. Working together, mother and daughter were able to gather up all of the clothes before the first drop fell. Arianna smiled when she heard her mother's sigh of relief and continued litany of complaints against the weather.

Thoughts of Calixte, her husband-to-be, and the future whirled through Arianna's mind as her mother stepped into the house, leaving her alone. Arianna stepped away from the family's small home, tilting her head back just in time to feel a warm summer droplet of rain plop onto her forehead.

Arianna's lips curved and she stretched out her arms to welcome the rain. It would be another full hour before she went back inside.

_Glossary of Greek words:_

_+Mana: mother _

_+Pateras: father _

_+Thygatera: daughter_


End file.
